Personne ne me volera ma mort;
le jour où je m’en irai, je le ferai
à ma manière. — Dalida
I’m already in love, Dalida,
the way your hair flows down the scarf
draped about your neck,
your stone gown
intimate as a negligée,
standing here atop your grave,
shoulders bare,
a knee thrust forward,
eyeless gaze beyond
the flat black slabs.
I want to adore you,
wait at the stage door
with my bouquet
to add to fading roses
mounded here at your feet,
hear you sing Brel and Aznavour,
vibrato a taste of Calabria
for your silent audience
of military heros and Polish emigrés.
You cheated me, embracing death
at an age almost my own.
You were too young to leave me, Dalida,
though I have only just found you,
standing here in the cemetery,
in your granite boite de nuit.
